Sookie Stackhouse Boxed Set (Books 1-8) - Charlaine Harris [814]
“You set off the fire alarm?” Batanya said. “Whatever the Fellowship is doing, it’s today?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Thanks. We’re getting out now, and you should, too,” Clovache said.
“We’ll go back to our place after we deposit him,” Batanya said. “Good-bye.”
“Good luck,” I told them stupidly, and then I was running upstairs as if I’d trained for this. As a result, I was huffing like a bellows when I flung open the door to the ninth floor. I saw a lone maid pushing a cart down a long corridor. I ran up to her, frightening her even more than the fire alarm already had.
“Give me your master key,” I said.
“No!” She was middle-aged and Hispanic, and she wasn’t about to give in to such a crazy demand. “I’ll get fired.”
“Then open this door”—I pointed to Eric’s—“and get out of here.” I’m sure I looked like a desperate woman, and I was. “This building is going to blow up any minute.”
She flung the key at me and made tracks down the hallway to the elevators. Dammit.
And then the explosions began. There was a deep, resounding quiver and a boom from way below my feet, as if some gargantuan sea creature were making its way to the surface. I staggered over to Eric’s room, thrusting the plastic key into the slot and shoving open the door in a moment of utter silence. The room was in complete darkness.
“Eric, Pam!” I yelled. I fumbled for a light switch in the pitch-black room, felt the building sway. At least one of the upper charges had gone off. Oh, shit! Oh, shit! But the light came on, and I saw that Eric and Pam had gotten in the beds, not the coffins.
“Wake up!” I said, shaking Pam since she was closest. She didn’t stir at all. It was exactly like shaking a doll stuffed with sawdust. “Eric!” I screamed right in his ear.
This got a bit of a reaction; he was much older than Pam. His eyes opened a slit and tried to focus. “What?” he said.
“You have to get up! You have to! You have to go out!”
“Daytime,” he whispered. He began to flop over on his side.
I slapped him harder than I’ve ever hit anyone in my life. I screamed, “Get up!” until my voice would hardly work. Finally Eric stirred and managed to sit up. He was wearing black silk pajama bottoms, thank God, and I spied the ceremonial black cloak tossed over his coffin. He hadn’t returned it to Quinn, which was huge luck. I arranged it over him and fastened it at the neck. I pulled the hood over his face. “Cover your head!” I yelled, and I heard a burst of noise above my head: shattering glass, followed by shrieks.
Eric would drop back to sleep if I didn’t keep him awake. At least he was trying. I remembered that Bill had managed to stagger, under dire circumstances, at least for a few minutes. But Pam, though roughly the same age as Bill, simply could not be roused. I even pulled her long pale hair.
“You have to help me get Pam out,” I said finally, despairing. “Eric, you just have to.” There was another roar and a lurch in the floor. I screamed, and Eric’s eyes went wide. He staggered to his feet. As if we’d shared thoughts like Barry and I could, we both shoved his coffin off its trestle and onto the carpet. Then we slid it over to the opaque slanting glass panel forming the side of the building.
Everything around us trembled and shook. Eric’s eyes were a little wider now, and he was concentrating so heavily on keeping himself moving that his strength was pulling on mine.
“Pam,” I said, trying to push him into more action. I opened the coffin, after some desperate fumbling. Eric went over to his sleeping child, walking like his feet were sticking to the floor with each step. He took Pam’s shoulders and I took her feet, and we picked her up, blanket and all. The floor shook again, more violently this time, and we lurched over to the coffin and tossed Pam into it. I shut the lid and latched it, though a corner of Pam’s nightgown was sticking